


Complete State Circus

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Circus Performer Clint Barton, Kid Fic, M/M, Teaching, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Immediately to the left of the door they've come in through there are a bunch of framed certificates, safety and inspections and qualifications and awards. Immediately to the right, there's a table covered in a purple cloth, and a dark haired teenage girl with a strip of sticking plaster covering the majority of her chin sprawled on a folding chair, her feet propped up on the table."Hey," she says, with a painful looking grin. "Welcome to Hawkeyes' Circus Training. D'you guys need me to tell you about our available classes, or do you already have something in mind?"





	1. Chapter 1

The circus school, from the outside, looks shady as hell. It's in a kind of industrial wasteland, and the building, from the road, is indistinguishable from all the other concrete blocks, with their reinforced doors, and grilled windows, and sun-faded slatted blinds. When they park the car - and Bucky sets the alarm and hopes like hell it's gonna be there when he gets back - and circle around to the front, he has to stop and stare. 

The sign is far larger than it oughta be, for a building this size. It's bright and gold and purple and a little lopsided, and it's been clumsily edited; the C has been curled into a B, and the S awkwardly transposed into a T so it just about reads BARTON'S CIRCUS, with a poster-sized piece of paper tacked on the end with a hastily scribbled SCHOOL. 

Every hackle that Bucky's ever had is raised, and he stands fast, even with Biscuit tugging on his hand, her small face determined and her hair already frizzing out of its clumsy braid. 

"Sweetheart -" he says, and her eyes widen at his tone and then narrow, and some days it's a punch in the gut how goddamn much she looks like her mom. She digs in her heels and keeps tugging on his hand, and her fingers are going a little paler around his, and he wonders how hard she's squeezing. Bucky mentally wishes a goodbye to his car - 'cos no way he's leaving her in this place alone, not even for the second it'd take to check on it - and lets her drag him to the purple-painted door, propped open with a couple sandbags. 

(He was always gonna give in, he has no kinda illusions about this. The way her fingers had trailed reverently over the poster, the hopeful look in her eyes, they'd done their parts, but it all came down to the first smile he'd seen on her face since that cop came to the front door.)

The narrow corridor quickly opens out into a wide open space, and it's better than what he was expecting. There are crash mats on the floor in various bright colours, equipment that all looks new and shiny and thoroughly cared for. One side of the room has been barricaded off with woven fencing, and there's a sliding sign to inform him that the range is now CLOSED. Small kids are scattered around the crash mats, talking in small groups or running riot amongst the equipment, but not a one of 'em has started climbing on it, which says somethin' for the instruction here. 

Immediately to the left of the door they've come in through there are a bunch of framed certificates, safety and inspections and qualifications and awards. Immediately to the right, there's a table covered in a purple cloth, and a dark haired teenage girl with a strip of sticking plaster covering the majority of her chin sprawled on a folding chair, her feet propped up on the table. 

"Hey," she says, with a painful looking grin. "Welcome to Hawkeyes' Circus Training. D'you guys need me to tell you about our available classes, or do you already have something in mind?"

Bucky looks down at Biscuit, who's already pretty clearly smitten; he can see they're gonna leave today with a kid-sized version of the 'Barton Archery School' shirt she's wearing. 

"This one wants in on the beginners Circus Skills," he says, and his hand drops to her hair as her arms wrap tight around his waist; it's rare that it's so easy to tell he's doin' something like a good job. 

"Sure thing." 

His details are taken down efficiently, entered into a form by hand, and he has to sign the waiver at the bottom - he has to accept the possibility of injury but now he's got a look at the place he's willing to accept that it's a remote possibility rather than somethin' they expect. He winces a little at the total the neat little card machine shows - caring for a kid ain't cheap, and it wasn't exactly something he'd been carefully saving for - but commits himself to hauling her along for the next twelve weeks. 

"Okay, Rachel -" the girl starts, and Biscuit's mouth turns instantly stubborn, her chin settin' square to stop it from wobbling.

"We - she prefers to be called Biscuit," he says. "Also you should probably know she ain't much of a one for talking, lately." 

"That's okay," says a new voice, "'cos I'm pretty terrible at listening." 

The new guy grins down at Biscuit, tipping his head a little and indicating the bright purple aids that're tucked behind his ears. He's tall, half a foot taller than Bucky, with wheat-blond hair and uncomplicated blue eyes like a shade of summer sky. His posture is loose and about as unthreatening as it can be, and even for Bucky it takes a second to notice how wide his shoulders are, how hard his biceps are straining at the sleeves of his worn-thin gray shirt. 

(Once he's noticed, though, it's a little embarrassing how hard it is to look away.)

"Right," the guy says, and jerks his head at them both to indicate they should follow him as he weaves between the pieces of equipment, the collection of small kids around the room falling in behind him without a word said. Biscuit willingly joins the crowd of 'em that throw themselves onto the purple crash mat in front of the tight-strung low wire that crosses a decent chunk of the room. 

"Mornin' guys and gals and non-binary pals," he says with a grin, and leaps up to stand on the wire like it's just as stable as any floor, his feet braced apart and just a little curled. As he's speaking, his hands are moving fluidly, even though Bucky can't see any kids wearing aids. "For those of you joining us for the first time today, I'm Clint and over by the door is Kate, but you can call both of us Hawkeye if you forget which is which. We're gonna teach you some awesome circus tricks over the next few weeks, and this place is also open for archery lessons and self defence if you've got a hankerin' in either of those directions - that goes for all you guys too." He raises his head to grin at the group of adults standing around at the back, and Bucky folds his arms across his chest when Clint meets his eye and drops him a wink. 

"The things we're gonna be teaching you can be dangerous if you don't do 'em right," he says, suddenly serious, "so it's important you don't go home and try 'em in your living room, or have a go in the schoolyard to impress all your friends. You might be able to reproduce some of this in gym class, but you gotta make sure that your teacher knows what you're gonna be trying, and - what've you gotta remember?" 

"Always land on Matt!" A bunch of the kids chorus, and three of 'em immediately bundle a tall kid with a wide grin and a galaxy of freckles, who disappears under a pile of flailing limbs with a yell of laughing protest. 

"Always land on a mat," Clint repeats, ignoring the small knot of chaos in front of him, although his mouth is twitching up just a little at the corner. "We recommend you come dressed in something comfortable that you can move in, and that you don't mind getting a little messy - these classes involve hard work. We run these classes on a rolling 12 week basis, so you can be sure that even if people've been here longer they're definitely gonna be trying things for the first time, same as you." 

He grins down at all the kids, and there's just something openly delighted in his expression, like his day job is just about the best thing in the world. It's pretty dumb, how hard the envy curls in Bucky's stomach at that. 

"Most important of all?" he asks, signing the words, and then he curls his hand around his ear and half the kids bellow back at him. 

"HAVE FUN!" they yell, and he grins and signs along. 

*

Biscuit looks exhausted but exhilarated, when class is finally over. Apparently they picked a good week to get started - it started out with trust falls and tumbling, and ended in some pretty shaky pyramids of kids, Kate and Clint carefully supporting and nudging them into place until they had some pretty creditable human sculptures going on. It built trust between the kids immediately, and Biscuit gets some grins and waves goodbye even without uttering a word all session. 

"So what'd you think?" Bucky asks, and he's hoping for a smile; he isn't expecting her to touch her nose with her fingers and then tap 'em down against her other hand. It's a clumsy approximation of what Barton'd signed at the beginning, and it's - shit, it's about the first coherent thing she's said to him in months. 

"Fun, huh?" he says, his throat a little thick, can’t help grinning at her decisive nod. 

“So what’s the verdict, Biscuit?” Kate asks as they head for the door. She’s got one leg bent up behind her, stretching her muscles, but her balance looks about perfect, like she could get hit by a bulldozer and still stand firm. In sharp contrast, there’s a crash over by the archery range; after a second, Clint stands up and calls out that he’s fine. Kate rolls her eyes, unsurprised. 

Biscuit looks up at Kate, and then looks at Bucky, her eyes a little wide and a little frantic; looks like she’s not secure enough to try to repeat Clint’s sign to anyone that’s not Bucky, not yet. 

“She liked it,” he says, and she nods firmly up at Kate. 

“Great,” Kate says, and she grins a wide and dimpled grin. “Looking forward to seeing you next week!” 

Against all expectations, when they get outside the car is still there and still in one piece. Bucky helps Biscuit into her booster seat and straps her in, and it’s no great surprise that she’s fast asleep when they pull into the driveway of his sister’s house - his house, now - her hair a mess against the seat back and her mouth open and drooling. Bucky unsnaps the buckle and considers just picking her up and carrying her in, but she’s still not so good with unexpected change. Instead he pokes her gently awake and guides her with careful hands as she stumbles towards the house, gets her settled at the kitchen table with some carrot sticks and cheese while he throws together something that’ll count as dinner provided you only squint. 

By the time he’s got her washed and brushed and dressed for bed he’s yawning right along with her, picks the shortest story he can find to read her to sleep. Her warm, trusting weight against him is as welcome as it is terrifying; he gently brushes her hair away from the edges of the metal plates on his arm, and contemplates resettling her onto her pillow, maybe picking up a little around the house. 

He figures five more minutes can’t do any harm. 

 

>====>

 

Clint stretches out his shoulders, wandering across to the little kitchenette that's attached to what is nominally his office, the desk covered with feathers and glues and the vice he spent last night turning over his apartment for. 

Kate's not in yet so he doesn't bother getting out a mug, just grabbing the pot of coffee in its entirety and carrying it out into the main room, nodding goodbyes to the few who're still working on leaving. 

Tasha was right - his self-defence for seniors class has had a pretty good uptake, and it's been interesting devising things to teach 'em that take into account their capabilities and limitations. The fact that the only time he could fit it in was at half seven in the morning, though, that kinda burns. 

He leans back against the wall and crosses his legs at the ankles, waving a goodbye to Dolores who drops him a filthy wink. He's got a school club coming in at 11am for an introduction to archery, lunch with Tasha at 1pm, private lessons with kids who are working towards competitions between 2:30 and half five. It's the Circus School that's holding his attention, though, and he knows the hours are gonna crawl between now and 6. 

It's inevitable, it happens every six months or so like clockwork, and Natasha is gonna roll her eyes so hard when she finds out he's fallen for yet another of the Parade of Cute Dads. He's a sucker for a tired-lookin' guy who's tender with his kids; give him salt-n-pepper stubble and a baggy sweater with bleach stains and he's practically on his knees. 

He guesses that it helps that he always gives himself over to his crushes knowing from the first that it's never gonna be. You can throw yourself headlong when you know there's never gonna be a cold hard reality to crash up against. 

Kate is taking Intro to Psych, and figures herself for some kinda young Jung. She keeps trying to layer his tastes with psychology, but it's not like Clint needs any depth of navel gazing to realise that a) he has daddy issues like hell and b) most of his social interactions are aimed at sneaking his way into some kinda family. Katie-Kate's the little sister he never had, Natasha exasperated and older; the two of them make up, somehow, for the reality of Barney. Hell, Clint wound up owning a building because he couldn't bear to let the weekly barbecues go, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise that he occasionally fantasises about the dads that show up to his classes, picturing cookouts and cuddles rather than them fucking him over the crash mats. 

This time around, he's found himself all wound up around thoughts of James Barnes. 

It's important to state for the record that it's not about wanting the guys themselves so much as it is wanting what they have; or wanting to be a part of what they have, maybe. He's not looking to seduce them into infidelity or anything, because that would pretty much instantly destroy what he likes about them. 

When it comes to James, though, it's tougher. 

James looks like he hasn't slept in a month or two, and somehow he makes the dark circles look good. James puts on leather gloves so he can put Biscuit's hair in ugly braids with infinite care and no risk of getting the flyaway strands caught in the plates of his prosthetic hand. James gets a look on his face sometimes - like when the twins' asshole dad made a comment on Kate's ass - that tells you he _knows_ he could kick your ass, and Clint is painfully into it. 

At the end of the last session - introduction to juggling, during which Biscuit had worked harder than anyone, chewing her lip in silence as she worked to get the throws right, and had won herself a set of yellow and purple balls - James had approached Clint quietly, almost making him jump out of his skin. He'd asked about ASL resources, about whether there were videos he could watch, 'cos Biscuit had started picking up a word or two from Clint and James wanted to make sure he supported her in the communication she could manage, right now. 

It is legitimately not Clint's fault that he's fallen kinda embarrassingly in love. 

"Hey, boss," Kate says from across the gym, and Clint knows that tone; he makes a beeline for her, swerving only a little sideways so he can put the coffee pot safely on a box full of equipment before folding her into his arms. 

"What'd she do?" he asks the top of her head. Her hair smells of coconut, it's one of the best things about hugging her. 

"Don't know what you mean," she says, stubborn and only a little wobbly, 'cos she likes to pretend that all of her problems don't have America deep down at their heart. 

"Okay," he says, agreeably, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Wanna shoot from the trapeze?" 

"Only if you show me that trick with the reversal," she says, and by the time the school club arrives at 11 she's hanging from her knees and has just pendulumed to a bullseye, which, it turns out, is a hell of a guarantee of discipline from barely teenage wannabe-archers. 

Clint's kinda exhausted by the time lunch rolls around. He leaves Kate with the laptop, updating and improving Clint's attempts at computerised admin, and takes the time to grab a shower in the rickety restroom that has a perpetual drip and a rust pool around the drain. He tugs on a pair of jeans and a tidy flannel shirt that he pulled out of a filing cabinet of clothes that he keeps in the corner of his office, and heads out into the late summer heat. The bus stop's a couple blocks away, and he takes the bus into Bushwick. Natasha's in the mood for Caribbean today, apparently, and he arrives to find her sitting out on the patio, and he's already got a cocktail waiting for him. 

"You know I've got to work this afternoon, right?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes and gulps down half the glass before setting it back in front of him. There's no other indication of cracks in her otherwise perfect composure, but he's known her a long time. "Stark?" 

"He has a new... friend," she says, and she's been working with Tony Stark long enough that he knows exactly what she means. A Tony with a new obsession is a Tony who contains a manic energy, a Tony who can't focus, a Tony who makes her job about a hundred times more difficult. 

"Poor guy," he says, and Natasha shoots him a sharp look. 

"Oh no," she says, and he grabs a menu to hide his face in. "Oh, Clint, not again." 

Natasha's always said that love is for children, but that doesn't prevent her from taking a certain amount of morbid delight in the hopelessness of Clint's. He groans and slumps forward onto the table, pushing his cocktail over to her and pushing his fingers into his hair, and after a moment her fingers softly join his. 

"Curried goat, please. He'll have the jerk salmon," she tells someone, and then there's a moment's quiet. "Tell me about him," she says. 

Clint sighs, the grain of the wooden table rough against his face. 

"I dunno." His voice is quiet, the way he doesn't usually feel safe enough to be. "He looks sad, but sometimes he smiles at his kid and I kinda feel like my heart's gonna melt out of my chest. He's careful with her, and he always seems a little scared he's gonna get stuff wrong. When he's listening to you talk, it kinda feels like you're the only person in the world." 

Natasha's fingers have stilled. It's a second or two before they move again, carefully untangling the hair that's caught on his calluses. 

"And he's hot?" she asks diffidently. 

"Huh?"

"You usually start with how they're hot." 

Clint makes a kind of helpless noise, and it's probably for the best that their food shows up right then. 

*

The circus session that night is all about balance, and moves through various techniques and equipment until it ends in a kinda massive game where the floor is lava; it's a hell of an opportunity for Clint to show off, and he makes a circuit almost entirely on his hands, the tightrope cutting into them a little. 

There's a lot of noise, a lot of screaming, a lot of gleeful laughter, and Clint ends up dialing his aids right down but making sure he keeps a sharp eye on what the kids are getting up to. 

It's only when he notices how many parents have showed up - how many of the guys that stay are starting to look at their watches - that he realises that class is over. He claps his hands sharply, three times, and the kids quit what they're doing and slump onto the mat at the front of the room. 

"Okay, kids, excellent job, no major lava palavers. I'm gonna remind you - yeah, I know, no groans - that Kate and me are experts at this circus stuff, so make sure you only try this stuff when you've got a responsible adult watching your back. Thanks for coming, and I'll see you all next week." 

He hasn't adjusted his aids again, so it takes him a few moments to notice that the Barneses are standing close, trying to get his attention. He quickly fixes the volume and gives Biscuit a grin that she returns. 

"Hey Biscuit, hey Mr Barnes." 

Biscuit snorts and waves her hands to make sure she's watching before carefully spelling something out. 

"Hey, you've been practicing," he says, delighted. "But I'm not sure -" he looks at James Barnes and shrugs. "You know what Bucky means?" 

He smiles, soft but a little crooked, and it's maybe his best smile yet. 

"Yeah." He rests his hand on Biscuit's head for the second or so she puts up with it before she makes a face and bats it away. "Yeah, Bucky's me. Bucky and Becca and Biscuit." 

"You want me to -" 

"Yeah," he says, and he ducks his head a little and grins. "Bucky's good." 

"Okay." Clint's smiling too, he can feel it. Probably looks like an idiot, he's smiling so wide. "How can I help you, Bucky?" 

"We were wondering if you wanted to come grab dinner with us, one day." 

Clint's heart thumps hard in his chest for a second, until Bucky continues. 

"Biscuit thinks you guys are just about the best thing since Paw Patrol, and we wanted to say thank you." 

It's dumb to be disappointed. He does know this. He’s not having the easiest time convincing his idiot heart.

“Better idea,” he says, thinking furiously, thinking about how much easier it’s gonna be to deal with this if he hasn’t got to cope with Bucky alone. “if you guys’re up for it. All the people in my building have a cookout every Friday when the weather’s good, and you’re welcome to come along. Kate comes, and you can meet my dog, and there’re a bunch of kids and a stack of water guns, I’m pretty sure Biscuit’d have fun.” 

“Wow,” Bucky says, and the gratitude on his face is something else. “Yeah, I - that’d be great? Thank you.” 

“Come meet me here around seven on Friday, it’s just a couple blocks away. And feel free to bring - if Biscuit’s mom wants to come along?” 

“No, she’s -” Bucky casts a quick sideways glance at Biscuit, his mouth pulled a little down at the corner. “It’s just us.” 

“Okay,” Clint says, and rubs the heel of his hand across his chest, an apology and an attempt to soothe the ache. “Okay. I’ll see you guys Friday.” 

“We’ll look forward to it,” Bucky says, and just about tries to kill Clint with his smile. 

 

>====>

 


	2. Chapter 2

Biscuit’s attempting to hum along to the radio, when they pull up in front of the circus school on Friday, and bless her but she’s inherited her mother’s tin ear - Becca was chucked out of the church choir so hard she bounced, and try as they might their parents had never managed to get her to attend mass again. 

Biscuit’s like that. Stubborn. Makes up her mind and keeps it that way. The doctors Bucky’d consulted had tried to push him into taking Biscuit for therapy, but she’d looked so miserable at the idea, and he’s fairly certain she’ll start talking again when she’s ready; maybe when things start to feel safe. Maybe when they both stopped expecting Becca to come back through the front door. 

The parking lot’s empty, this time of the evening, just the sound of one lone skateboarder trundling away. The slam of the car doors echo in the silence, and one of the shadows detaches itself from the wall of the school and lifts a hand in welcome. 

“Hey guys.” 

Kate’s wearing a jacket in deference to the slight evening chill, blue and red and covered in stars, different to her usual stubbornly purple colour scheme. She bends a little to greet Biscuit with some kinda complicated handshake that Bucky hasn’t ever seen before, and it’s one of those dumb things that Bucky never intends to get jealous about. He kinda hoards Biscuit’s communications, because they’re so few and far between, and he’s honestly grateful that she’s making friends but he’s also a little afraid that she doesn’t even like him, half the time. That she sure as hell wouldn’t’ve chosen to stay with him, if she’d ever had anything like a choice. 

“Hey, Bucky,” Kate says, and he isn’t sure when he’d been introduced to her that way. “Clint’s inside if you want to go get him.” 

He raises an eyebrow at Biscuit, who kinda contorts her face tryin’ to raise an eyebrow back, which he’s gonna take - along with the gentle grip she has on Kate’s sleeve, now - as her being willing to wait out here. 

When he walks inside, having to shove open the door with the kinda grating squeak that makes him want to go hard with a can of WD-40, half the lights in the main room are off, only the range lit up like a stage. The woven walls are solid to about chest height, and then the weaving becomes much looser, allowing observers to get a glimpse of what’s going on inside. Bucky steps forward, curious, and loses his breath like a punch. 

Clint’s turned side-on to him, the pale purple shirt he’s wearing wash-worn and almost translucent in the bright lights. The muscles in his back bunch and flex as he draws his bow tight, drawing it parallel to the ground, two arrows lined up and hauled back. Bucky can’t help the long, slow look he drags across Clint’s body, thorough like fingers, but it’s the guy’s profile that he comes back to. The way he looks so focused and still so serene; like this shot is already done, already perfect, etched into the pages of the universe. Like there is no possibility that he could ever miss. It’s a level of self-confidence so at odds with the way he always seems a little manic, the way his expression is almost always halfway to wincing, preparing to apologise for whatever he chooses to be. It’s a level of self-confidence that is on its way to being the hottest thing that Bucky has ever seen, right up until Clint lets the string go and the arrows fly true, faster than Bucky can follow, and thud into two different bullseyes. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky hisses, giving everything away in that moment’s slip, and he feels the red rise in his cheeks like betrayal. 

Clint just picks up another arrow, though. Doesn’t turn around until the lights overhead flicker, courtesy of Kate who’s standing by the door. He looks up, startled, like he’s been woken out of a dream, and then stows the arrow and his bow, careful and neat and unlike every other thing about him. Bucky isn’t prepared for it when Clint catches a glimpse of him, isn’t prepared for the sheer delight in the smile on his face. 

“Hey!” he says. “It’s Friday!” 

_Yes_ , Bucky signs, one of the few he’s managed to pick up so far, and Clint’s smile widens at the deadpan expression on Bucky’s face. He grabs his aids from a table just outside the range, locks the gate with a padlock and slides the sign across to CLOSED, and by the time he’s turned around again Bucky’s pretty sure he’s managed to gain a little control over the colour in his cheeks. 

“You’re gonna love Grills’ cooking,” Clint says, slipping his aids into his ears, wincing a little when he speaks again and reaching up to adjust the volume. “Me, I’m not allowed near the barbecue any more, but I have a couple six packs in my fridge.” 

“I don’t,” Bucky says hurriedly, and the words he bites back between his teeth are almost audible but it’s better than outright saying ‘ _any more_ ’. 

“And there’s a bodega on a corner on the way that has just about every soda known to man,” Clint continues easily, and he doesn’t cast a sidelong look, and he doesn’t ask any questions. “I like pineapple, myself, and there’s this mango-guava-papaya-pineapple shit that may be laced with actual crack. Biscuit have a favourite flavour?” 

Bucky shrugs, scowling, and looks away. 

“Bet it’s grape,” Kate says, ushering them out the door and switching off the lights behind them, locking the door with a grinding kinda click that honestly makes Bucky’s fingers itch. He’s never been great with leaving alone things that need fixing. “You okay leaving your car here?” 

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” Clint says, “and Kate can always drop you back here later if -” 

“No,” Bucky says, flatly, cutting him off, his heart thudding harder in his chest. He can feel the plates of his hand grinding together, and he takes a deep breath, working hard on replicating whatever state of calm is gonna get his hand to unclench. “Thanks,” he manages. “I gotta be the one that drives.”

He’s got a counsellor. He knows all the arguments - that there was no guarantee he’d have seen the IED any better than Duggan had; that even with two working headlights Becca couldn’t’ve seen that drunk coming. He knows the arguments in his head but he’s still working on getting his gut to catch up, and until that far-off day he’s not letting anyone else behind the wheel. 

“No problem,” Clint says, “I’ll walk you back.” 

The brightly-lit bodega lives up to everything Clint promised. Bucky grabs a peach and a raspberry flavoured Pepsi, kinda curious and willing to drink water if they’re as bad as they sound. Biscuit wavers back and forth between a few options, but eventually plumps for grape to the sound of Kate’s crowing. And the little clench in Bucky’s stomach when Clint grabs an armful of his mango-guava-pineapple-whatever - 

“I don’t care if you drink,” he says, and he maybe sounds a little defensive, ‘cos he’s gotta make a display outta the few he has left. 

“And I don’t care if I don’t,” Clint says easily. Like everything with him always is. 

Clint’s building is a red brick walk-up with a pretty advanced security system on the front door. He installed it himself, apparently, and it’s kinda cute how proud he is of it, telling Bucky all about how tenants can see who’s calling and buzz people in from an app on their phone. Kate rolls her eyes. 

“Just don’t let him near the plumbing,” she says, and Clint folds his arms and offers a sheepish kinda grin. 

They stop off at Clint’s apartment on their way up to the roof, and Biscuit’s little face just about splits open with her delighted smile at the beat up golden retriever that bounds out at them, barking ecstatically and dancing around Kate. 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Clint says, piling his soda cans into a tote bag and crossing to the kitchenette to grab some ice out of the freezer, “two days of Katie-Kate feeding you and I’m chopped liver.” He hauls the bag of ice onto his shoulder and condensation starts dripping down his shirt almost immediately, turning the fabric dark and making it cling; Bucky drops to his knees and desperately focuses all of his attention on the damned dog. 

“This is Lucky,” Kate tells Biscuit, who’s vibrating faintly in place, her hands hovering above Lucky’s back. “I know he looks like he’s been in the wars, but this is the fixed version, he’s good. Just don’t surprise him from his blind side, okay?” 

Biscuit nods and gently lowers her hand, her fingers sinking into the fur at the scruff of Lucky’s neck, and she just looks - awed. Young, in a way she hasn’t been, lately. 

Bucky wonders what you have to do to get yourself a therapy dog. 

“Ready to go?” Clint asks, towering over them, and Bucky’s newly conscious of the sheer fuckin’ length of the guy. About the fact that when he stands up, he’s gonna be about eye-level with Clint’s chin; about how he’d just have to tilt his head a little to have access to his neck. This is a hell of a time to have his fuckin’ libido come back, after he thought he’d left it out in the desert with the better part of his left arm. 

“CHEESE BORGER,” Kate hollers, and Biscuit giggles out loud and races out of the door after her, and Lucky’s tugging against where Bucky’s got his fingers pushed in amongst his fur. He sits back on his heels - gaining a little distance - and then pushes smoothly up to his feet, grabbing up the tote bag of soda and keeping his eyes on Clint’s heels as he follows the guy out of the door and up the stairs. 

Someone’s propped the door to the roof open with half a brick, so Bucky’s braced for the sheer numbers by the hubbub that echoes down the stairs. There’s a bit of a crowd over by the grill, another by the table covered with tubs of ice and various bottles and cans. Everyone else is in pairs or small groups, chatting about everything and nothing, a gentle kinda satisfaction shared face to face. 

It’s the kinda summer evening that friendships are built on, Bucky figures, the sky just about easing into dark. Someone’s strung up solar powered lights, around the perimeter and back and forth across the open spaces; half of them are purple and distinctly lopsided, so Bucky figures those for Clint’s. Biscuit’s already made firm friends with a couple of kids with supersoakers, and Bucky resigns himself to another load of laundry tonight; Clint and Kate are heading for the grill and greeting everyone like old friends. Bucky takes himself off to a corner of the roof, not in the dark precisely but maybe a little less well lit, and sits on a low wall there, watching the way the crowd ebbs and flows between groups. He’s always aware of outraged squawking, shrieks of childish laughter - some of which he even recognises - and it’s almost enough to allow him to relax. 

By the time Clint shows up, a pair of plates overlapping in one large hand, a couple cans tucked under his other arm, Bucky’s feeling baked soft and almost smiling, sprawled out on the roof and leaning back against the wall with his jacket tucked behind his head. Clint folds himself down to sit opposite him, hands over a plate that’s stacked high with just about everything a barbecue has to offer, a pair of pickles placed carefully into the brim of a tiny folded tinfoil hat. 

“Not everyone likes ‘em,” he says, at Bucky’s look, and his calluses rasp against the short hairs on the back of his neck. “And I couldn’t find anything else to put ‘em in.” 

“Sometimes I kinda think you’re trying to kill me,” Bucky says, and Clint laughs. 

“You don’t _have_ to eat them,” he says. 

They talk easily over the food. What with working around Bucky’s job and Biscuit’s school, plus all the time taken up by meetings he’s gotta attend about her grades, her mutism, her stubborn streak, it’s about the first decent conversation he’s had in months. Clint is genuinely interesting, genuinely interested, and has a dry sense of humour that’s working hard to hide how bright he is, underneath. He’s observant, too - picks up in seconds that Bucky’s keeping more than half an eye on Biscuit. 

“I know you’re still gonna be watching,” he says, “but it’s important you know that Katie-Kate’s got her back.” 

And on top of all of that, Bucky keeps catching these little sidelong glances that’re tying his stomach up in knots. These little sidelong glances that’re the odd sort of familiar of everything from before the war; the kind no one’s ever really given him since he came back scarred and broken. They’re making heat squirm into his stomach, make itself at home there like it never even left, and if Clint leans in a little closer Bucky’s not sure what the hell he’s gonna do. 

He’s on his feet before he even registers the shriek, heart pounding, and it’s a second before he hones in on the chaos, one of the kids Biscuit’s been playing with bawling his eyes out, a new hole ripped in the elbow of his sweater and a nasty scrape on his arm to match. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Clint says, “I’ve got this,” clapping his big hands on Bucky’s shoulders and pushing him a little backwards, so when Clint moves forward he’s between Bucky and the crowd. He lopes across the rooftop, bends down to exchange a couple words that leave the kid laughing through his sniffles, and disappears through the door. When he returns he’s got a huge first-aid kit in his hands; Biscuit and Kate have made their way over to Bucky, and Lucky’s herded him back over to his corner and planted himself between Bucky and the world. 

Biscuit, looking a little shaken, waits until Bucky sits down again and then plants herself on his lap, folding his arms around her and winding her fingers around his metal hand like there’s no difference between it and the other one. 

“He’s okay,” Bucky murmurs into her hair, rocking them side to side a little. “It’s okay, sweetheart, Clint’s got him.” 

And don’t those words just settle in his stomach just right?

The party doesn’t last much longer after that. There’re adults who’re clearly gonna make a night of it, plastic crates full of empties stacking up by the door, but Bucky doesn’t much like being around drunk people any more, and Biscuit’s clinging to him the way she does when she won’t admit she’s tired. He stands up with assistance from Clint, resettling Biscuit in his arms, and there’s a long sweet moment where he’s not sure precisely how he ought to say his goodbyes. Finally Clint ducks his head, breaks the eye contact with a small grin. 

“You got a business card for him, Katie-Kate?” he calls, and she rolls her eyes at him and pulls a square of cardstock out of her pocket, taking a moment to scribble something on the back of it before coming over to tuck it into Bucky’s pocket and pat it into place. 

“You hurt him, I hurt you,” she says, with her charming dimpled grin, and Bucky isn’t sure he’d known it was heading exactly that direction, but he’s willing - for once - to take it on trust. 

 

>====>

Clint's not expecting to be woken up by his vibrating phone, and he's not exactly pleased about it. He groans and rolls over in his too-empty bed, fumbling under the pillow until his hand closes around its familiar bulky shape. It stops ringing before he can answer it, but immediately starts again, and it's an adrenaline rush somewhere between fear and anticipation when he sees that the number's unknown. 

"Hey," he says, just as soon as he thumbs to answer it, "gimme a second, I got no ears." 

His aids are in their case on the nightstand, and he's still struggling out of his dreams, so it takes him a moment before he can coordinate unzipping them, hooking them into place. He rubs one hand over his face, slapping his cheek a couple times to make an effort at wakefulness, and lets out a long breath. 

"Okay," he says, "Clint Barton speaking, what c'n I -" 

"Clint!" 

It's Bucky's voice, he could swear to it, only it's not Bucky's voice any way he's ever heard it. Bucky's voice is usually low, kinda drawling, deadpan flat when it isn't a little amused. This Bucky sounds frantic, sounds kinda unclear, and Clint figures Bucky's got him on speaker 'cos he can hear the muffled noises that might be clothing rustling, that might be a million other things. 

"Bucky, what's going on?" He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder, winces a little as his hearing aid protests, and pushes himself upright, scouting around for wherever the hell he left his pants. 

"I don't - fuck, I don't know what to do, it's the middle of the night, where the hell -" 

It's not easy to follow, not the way he's mumbling, not the way the speaker and Clint's aids distort the sounds. 

"Why're you calling me, Bucky?" he asks, trying to keep his tone low and even, and there's a shaky breath at the other end of the phone and the abrupt creak of springs, like Bucky's let all his weight drop. 

"I don't know," he says, a little helpless. "I don't fuckin' know, you just - you make things okay." 

"Wow," Clint says. He's got one leg in his pants but he has to take a second there, allow the feelings it gives him to shiver through him, ears to his stomach to the tips of his fingers and out. "I'm gonna need that on a Post-it, but I meant that you've gotta tell me what you need, 'cos my aids ain't good enough to pick you up on speaker."

"I - _shit_ ," Bucky says, and there's weight to it, months heavy, years long. "I have - dreams." That pause, too, that's carrying history in it, and Clint wants more than anything right now to do what he can to help him shoulder that load. 

"Dreams?" he asks, zipping up his jeans, checking for the wallet in his back pocket, pulling on a hoodie over his bare chest. Lucky lifts his head when Clint thumps down the stairs from his bedroom, but it's too early for even him to get excited about going outside. 

"Screaming fuckin' nightmares," Bucky says, and it sounds like he's furious with himself. "I, fuck, I've been doin' so much better, haven't had one for months, and I just woke up in the corner of my room and I can't find - and Rachel's fuckin' _gone_ and -" 

"Bucky," Clint says, trying to head off the spiral, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door and stepping into mismatched shoes, "how 'bout you tell me where you are?" 

*

Clint's truck is battered and ugly and about five different colours, and it couldn't look more out of place in the suburban utopia of Bucky's neat drive. He swings out of the truck and the door opens before he even gets there; he probably ought to feel guilty for the way he can't help eyeing Bucky up and down, mussed hair and low-slung boxers and the best set of abs Clint's ever seen. That's gone in an instant, though, as soon as he sees the expression on Bucky's face, and he just opens his arms and hauls the guy in. 

There's a second's hesitation, a moment of stiffness, and then Bucky is practically collapsing into Clint's arms like someone's cut his strings. Clint's got to wonder how long it's been since he had someone to lean on like this, and lets the hug go on for a good thirty seconds longer than it should. When he eventually pulls away Bucky looks a little dazed with it, and it's probably a pretty good indicator of what a shitty person Clint is that he wants to kiss that look right off the guy's face. 

"We're gonna find her," he says instead, watches as Bucky's expression sharpens back into a fierce kinda terror, like he's ready to fight whatever the fuck he needs to, ready to die to make sure Biscuit's safe. "How long between the nightmare and you noticing she was missing?"

"I don't know," Bucky says, empty. "I don't know how long it had me before I woke up. I don't think more than a couple minutes, but I've searched the whole goddamn house, and -"

"Okay," Clint says, "okay. And we know you got all her hideyholes 'cos no one knows her better than you." 

Bucky shrugs, and Clint puts his hands on his shoulders to ease 'em back down again, runs his thumbs up the sides of Bucky's neck. 

"That kid adores you," he says, stern, and Bucky scowls and shrugs him away. 

"What, she tell you that?" he asks, bitter, and Clint signs, _yes_. 

"Okay," he says, 'cos Bucky clearly doesn't know what to do with that, his mouth kinda open and his arms folded defensively across his chest. "Okay, you check inside the house again in case she's moving, and I'll see if there's any sign outside." 

"I dunno what - if anything happens to her, Clint -" 

Clint grabs his hand and squeezes tightly, the joints between metal pressing lines into his skin. 

"She's gonna be fine," he says. "We've got this." 

*

Clint heads around the side of the house. The garden's an interesting mix of wilderness and brutal order, like someone's looking after it who has no real idea of what they're doing and even less available time. Pink plastic toys, faded by the weather, scatter the cropped lawn, and there's a patio set with a lopsided table placed just right to catch the morning sun. Working by instinct - working from the memories of the way he used to feel when he was full of a storm of words that he didn't get to say - Clint works his way further back in the garden to where the bushes are overgrown, a small summer house almost swallowed up by the dark leaves. 

There's a few trees back here, tall and poorly managed, branches spreading wide almost all the way down to the ground. 

"Hey, Biscuit," he calls up, reaching up to tug gently on the dangling cord of her robe, "it okay if I come up?"

 _got her_ he texts when her tear-damp face appears among the foliage, but weirdly - for the first time in goddamn weeks - Bucky's not the first thing on his mind, right now. 

Clint climbs the tree with next to no effort. He can shin up a fuckin' street light, even if the cops wish he wouldn't, so there's no way he's gonna struggle with this. He climbs into the crook of two branches, just a little lower than where Biscuit's sat, and he's plotted three routes to grab her should she even start to wobble before he's settled himself in. 

"I guess he kinda scared you, huh?" he asks, and silent tears start to trickle down her cheeks before she roughly wipes them away, shaking her head fiercely, instantly protective. A door slams, back at the house, and she's slipping and sliding clumsily down the tree before he can reach to help her, only managing to lend a hand when she's nearly reached the ground. 

"Oh jesus," Bucky says, when he sees her, and collapses onto his knees. "Don't fuckin' scare me like that!" His words might be angry but his tone is so soft that it fills up Clint's throat like cotton, makes it impossible to swallow. 

Biscuit flings herself into his arms, and if Clint'd been a little further away, if he had adjusted his aids a little better, he maybe wouldn't've heard her when she croaks a soft apology. 

"Sorry, Uncle Bucky," she says. 

Clint gives Bucky a hand to get himself back to his feet, Biscuit wrapped tight around him like a vine, and herds the both of them back into the house. While Bucky carries Biscuit back to her bedroom, he clatters around looking for tea - Madame Es always swore by it, back at the circus - and ends up settling for putting some milk on to boil, an ancient tin of cocoa the next best thing. He starts washing the dishes in the sink to fill up the spaces inside his head, ‘cos the word ‘uncle’ has put a whole different spin on things and he’s gotta be the worst kinda asshole for even having the thought, right now. 

By the time Bucky emerges Clint’s got himself a little more under control, although that is sorely tested when Bucky comes straight over to him, eyes dark and expression worn threadbare with fatigue, halfway to naked and leaning in too close when he grabs his mug of hot cocoa. Clint looks up at the ceiling and swallows hard, desperately thinking honourable thoughts, and grabs for his mug, choking on a too-hot swallow. 

“Thank you,” Bucky says, low and rough, and Clint would like it stated for the record that he is doing his goddamn best here, okay, but there is only so much he can fuckin’ stand. When Bucky puts his mug down on the counter, ring of ceramic against granite, and moves to stand in front of Clint, there’s not much he can do to resist putting his hands on Bucky’s hips, awareness shivering through him at the touch of warm skin. 

“Uncle, huh?” he says, his mouth dry. Bucky’s not looking at him, his attention focused somewhere around mid-chest, and Clint almost flinches with how fast the blood drains from his head and downwards, just as soon as Bucky lifts a hand to the zipper of his hoodie and slowly drags it down. 

“Uncle,” he confirms, and the tips his head back a little so he can meet Clint’s eyes briefly, his own dark-dilated, a little smirk on his lips. “Never been much of a one for women.”

“Oh jesus.” Clint’s voice is shaking a little. He tries desperately to ignore the cool of Bucky’s metal hand as it ghosts down his side, pushing his hoodie apart. “Look, I - it’s important you know that if we - I’m kind of all in, here.” Bucky stops, looks back up at him, startled-wide. “It’s important,” Clint says, “that you recognise I’m kind of a mess.” ‘Cos Clint needs Bucky happy somehow more than he needs this, ‘cos his heart has always held more sway than either head. 

Bucky tips his head up again, scowls a little, has to go up on tiptoes so he can press his mouth to Clint’s, chapped lips moving a little and sending sparks down his spine. 

“I’m pretty sure,” Bucky says carefully, sliding his hands in between the hoodie and Clint’s skin and melting any further protests right out of his mouth, “that you are _exactly_ what we need.” 


End file.
